The late Ianto Jones
by Cohava
Summary: "You…" he tries, his voice dry "you don't remember?" "Remember what?" I say, while a chilling shiver runs down my spine. "This!" He frantically waves his hand around "This place… me? You know who I am, don't you?" His shout hurts. I stare back at him, gaping. I can't think of anything to say.


I stare at the ceiling. It's plain white, giving me no clues about where I am. I don't remember anything, and my head hurts; I pat the space beside me, reaching for someone else, but there's nobody. I'm alone.

Eventually I get up, and I sit on the edge of the bed until the room stops spinning. Not that there's much to see, anyway: it's the barest room I've ever seen, there's nothing there but the bed, a wooden wardrobe and a chair, with my own shoes under it. I'm still wearing the rest of my clothes, so I go out to explore.

As I poke my head trough the half-opened door I meet the gaze of a couple of blue eyes, the bluest I've ever seen; their owner smiles at me, sitting on a very comfortable-looking armchair, and asks "Are you feeling better this morning?"

What to answer? I have no idea. I don't know where I am, what I'm doing here, who I'm speaking with. Eventually I say "Fine, but I could use a coffee"

Blue Eyes' head jerks in the direction of the kitchen "My coffee is terrible, but I have a feeling yours isn't bad" the stranger replies, smiling. I smile back and retreat hastily to the kitchen. What's happening? I'm downright frightened now, and I consider calling the police, but what could I say? They'll think I've taken some drugs in a club and followed this stranger back to his place, and since I can't remember anything that happened, it might even be the truth.

I come back to the living room with two cups of coffee (better not upset the stranger until I know his intentions). My unknown host is sprawled on the armchair, reading an old book. He barely acknowledges my presence until I hand him the cup, then thanks me with the brightest smile I've ever seen. Huh. Quite attractive, I notice, which tells me that it's time to leave and try to figure out this mess in a safer place. I go for nonchalant, crouching down to tie my laces and then heading casually towards the door. "Well" I say, with a hand already on the handle "time to go home. Thanks for everything, um… well, thanks"

The blue stare is directed at me again, with an unreadable expression. It's making me nervous.

"This is your home" says the stranger and shit, I knew it couldn't be that easy. "I'm sorry" I insist, making an effort to keep my voice steady. I'm sweating. "I really need to go. I-I don't know what you're thinking to do but" but suddenly his strong hand is around my wrist, and I stop babbling, heart beating faster and faster as I try to think how to escape this awful, awful situation.

"But this is your home" the stranger keeps saying, and, oddly, his tone is not crazy-stalker possessive, merely… concerned "the flat. This place… it's yours. Wanna see the document?" There's an hint of a smile on his face it but looks fake, as if he's trying to lighten the situation with a joke, but I merely stare at him, blankly; the grip on my arm tightens as he stares back, our noses almost touching.

"You…" he tries, his voice dry "you don't remember?"

"Remember what?" I say, while a chilling shiver runs down my spine.

"This!" He frantically waves his hand around "This place… me? You know who I am, don't you?"

His shout hurts. I stare back at him, gaping. I can't think of anything to say.

"God" He gulps; he takes a half-step back, probably to give me some space, but he's still too close for comfort. "Do you even know who you are?"

That's easy; and I shouldn't answer so readily, maybe, not until I'm sure what's happening and that I haven't actually been drugged by a stalker, but it's such a relief to be certain of something that I don't even hesitate:

"Ianto, Ianto Jones!" I can see the relief clearly written on his face. But

"What year is it, Ianto Jones?" He asks, and for some reason I take a deep breath before answering this one:

"2002" The looks he gives me then is stricken, almost desperate, eliciting an hysterical, high-pitched laugh from me. I laugh, and laugh until my throat is sore, and in-between laughs I cry "You've got to be joking!" Because this is looking more and more like some rubbish movie, not something that can really happen to a real person. But he shakes his head and lays an hand on my arm.

"I'm so sorry" He says, and it's crazy, but some part of me is starting to believe him (strangely enough, I don't recoil from his touch. I always need to have my space, don't like to be touched by people I don't know. Him, I don't mind, almost like I recognize him. Isn't it the most ridiculous cliché?).

"Come on, then" I say, trying to sound sarcastic and defiant "surprise me, which year it really is?"

Then he tells me.

I sit on the couch with an audible thump! And I don't say anything. Should I? I'm trying to process the enormity of what he said (2008!) not that I believe him, of course I don't, this has got to be some sort of prank, but still… What if it was true? (absurd) I'd have lost seven years of my life, and that's just… unthinkable (obviously impossible); I wouldn't even know who I am anymore: what if I have a girlfriend, what if I got married (of course it isn't true, you idiot. It can't be)?

Somehow I get up again and go in the bathroom, shutting the door close. The stranger (?) doesn't follow me, and I take another deep breath, and square my shoulder, before I look in the mirror, right in the eye; and the worst possible thing –another stranger- stares back at me.

His face becomes redder and redder, and I have to remember myself to breathe; I lean towards the mirror, leaning on the sink, and study my reflection closely: I can see it's still me, but at the same time he (I'm)'s so different it's horrifying. My cheeks have become fuller, pinker; gone is the poor attempt of a beard I was trying to grow, I've got just the barest hint of a morning stubble. I look older, the last few stubborn spot I had are gone, too, and my haircut is different and oh, God, the change is so much more than the list of details.

I've changed _completely_.


End file.
